


A Thousand Miles From Nowhere

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-14
Updated: 2007-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 19:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The many ways the boys say "I love you" to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Miles From Nowhere

"You are the biggest fucking idiot in the universe."

"_Ouch._"

"I swear to god, when they were handing out brains--

"Ouch, _fuck_. What the hell are you doing?"

"--you must've been passed out under the pool table--"

"Dude, you're supposed to be stitching me up, not commenting on my--"

"What the hell made you think it was a good idea to throw yourself in front of a black dog, anyway? Jesus, Sammy, of all the idiot things--"

"It was about to rip your guts out, asshole."

"So it got yours instead. Brilliant plan."

"Stop bitching and start stitching."

"Ooh, look. College boy's a secret poet. "

"Roses are red, violets are blue, you don't finish my stitches and I'm going to stick the fucking needle in your eye."

"That doesn't rhyme."

~

He can drag it out. Listen to Dean to pull out more reasons, wait for to him get angry, impatient, frustrated, stand back as the insults start and the same tired disagreements rise up over and over again. He knows the game; three years apart haven't changed the rules.

But Dean is tired, bare, a thin veneer of brashness over a muddle of worry, and his gaze is open when he says, "I can't do this alone."

Sam stares, disbelieving and annoyed. "Yes, you can."

"Yeah." Pause, heartbeat. "Well, I don't want to."

Nothing more, nothing less, and Sam knows it isn't the miles and years that makes it hard for him to remember the last time Dean asked him for something he wanted.

~

He wakes up sometimes. Middle of the night, gasping and trembling and sweating, sheets twisted around his legs and pillow thrown to the floor, the roar of another nightmare thrumming through his head.

"Sammy?" His voice rough with sleep, Dean rolls over, clumsy and slow. He brushes his fingers through Sam's hair and along the side of his face, presses warm, slow kisses to his neck and pulls him closer until Sam's head is tucked against his shoulder. "Alright?"

The dreams -- not visions, nothing like that, no matter what they show him -- always fade quickly. Blood washes from red to white, shadows flash to sunlight, and the echo of his own twisted, mocking laughter is lost in the steady rhythm of Dean's heartbeat.

~

Backwoods outside Mobile, Alabama, hustling pool in a bar that smells like the floor's been soaking up beer since the War Between the States, and there's a good ole boy redneck three sheets to the wind and two hundred bucks in the hole who's taking Dean's skill with a stick a little too personally.

"Fucking pretty-boy pansy cheater," the guy slurs. He's got a smile that shows all of his teeth -- what's left of them, anyway. "Don't like the way you cheat, pussy."

Dean bristles. "I don't cheat at pool. You lost 'cause you suck. You owe me--"

The guy breaks his beer bottle on the edge of the pool table and faster than any guy that drunk should be able to move, he's got the jagged edge pressed to Dean's neck. "You wanna talk 'bout sucking, you little cunt? You wanna show me what those cocksucking lips of yours can do?"

Five seconds later Sam's fist is smashing into the man's face, and fifteen minutes later Dean is swerving the car off the road, spitting up gravel as he slams on the brakes, sliding across the seat and shoving his hand down Sam's pants before the car's even stopped rolling. Sam's hard already -- bar fights make him horny as hell, the little pervert -- and he groans with approval when Dean wraps his fingers around his dick and starts to pump, quick and unsteady and impatient.

"Whatcha doin', Sam?" Dean whispers, scraping his teeth along Sam's jaw. "Defending my virtue?"

"You don't--" Sam gasps and fumbles his fly open, presses up into Dean's fist. "Don't have any -- any virtue." He twists and wraps one hand around the back of Dean's neck. leans down and covers Dean's mouth with a hot, hungry, brain-melting kiss. He pulls back, his lips curving into a smile against Dean's and murmurs, "You want to show me what those cocksucking lips of yours can do?"

~

Sam's been moping for days.

"Dude, there was nothing we could have done."

Long, dramatic sighs. Sad, damp eyes. Hair in the face. The works.

"She's been dead for a hundred years, man. Kinda late for saving."

Angsty chick music, too. Turns the Impala into a regular Lilith Fair.

"Look, man, it's a sad story, but she was a ghost. A homicidal ghost. The kind we hunt? For a living?"

Same fucking song over and over again. That's the last straw.

"Fine. Whatever, sparky. You want to mope and cry because we made sure some dead chick stays dead, you go right ahead. Don't let me stop you."

Dean waits a day. Two days. Sam is still moping. So Dean pretends to be asleep on the morning of the third day when Sam rolls out of bed and stumbles into the shower. He gives Sam enough time to get the water running, get lathered up.

Then he slips out of bed, grabs his camera and opens the bathroom door nice and slow. He tosses Sam's clothes out of the bathroom -- towels too -- and reaches for the toilet.

"Dean?"

Instead of answering, he flushes and starts counting. _One, two, three_\--

With an ear-splitting yelp, Sam crashes through the curtain, stumbles against the wall, and nearly loses his footing on the linoleum.

"What the _hell_ are you--"

Dean raises the camera and snaps a picture.

Butt-naked and slightly pink, water and soap dripping over his face, Sam fixes Dean with a murderous glare. "That's not funny."

"Is from where I'm standing."

"What are you, twelve?"

"You're dripping all over the floor," Dean points out helpfully.

Sam makes a face and flings droplets of water at Dean, but as he turns back to the shower Dean sees his lips twitch into a smile.

Mission accomplished, Dean strolls out of the bathroom and flips open the laptop. It takes only a few seconds to load his newest picture as the desktop background.

~

"Dean, are you here?"

It's stupid, he knows it's stupid, but he looks around anyway, glances over the Ouija board on the floor, into the shadowed corners of the room.

"Couldn't find anything in the book," he admits, guilt sitting like ice in his stomach. "I don't know how to help you."

Keep reading, keep researching, keep looking, call everybody, call anybody -- he did it before, he can do it again, but Sam knows this is different. This reaper isn't bound; this one is just doing its job.

"But I'll keep trying, alright?" _I promise. I will. I won't give up._ It doesn't seem like enough, so he adds, "As long as you keep fighting. I mean, come on. You can't -- can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that."

Sam laughs. It's about as far from funny as it can possibly be, but Dean would be laughing, _should_ be laughing, if only he would wake up, claw his way out of that unnatural sleep.

"Dean, you gotta hold on." _Please. Please let him hold on._ "You can't go, man, not now." _Not now. Don't take him. Please. I don't know what--_ "We were just starting to be brothers again."

He can't tell. He just can't tell if Dean is in the room or not.

"Can you hear me?"

~

When Sam left for college, he was a bitchy teenager with pimples on his face and an attitude problem bigger than the Pacific. It takes him a while, but eventually Dean figures out that those few years away changed Sam into someone else entirely. Someone, Dean has to admit, he likes a hell of a lot more, even if he is a freak.

Sam really does enjoy those pussy coffee drinks he orders. If left to his own devices he'll go for days without showering and longer without washing his hair. He can't sew a button on a shirt to save his life, and he's never yet done a load of laundry that came back with all socks present and accounted for.

He kisses like it's the most important thing in the world, like nothing matters except cupping his hands around Dean's head and leaning down, like he's making a fucking art of pressing the full length of his body against Dean's and using all of his extra height and reach to his advantage. He kisses like there's nothing else in all of existence he'd rather be doing.

He remembers the names of every person they ever saved, as well as all those they didn't get to in time.

He still dreams about Jessica sometimes.

He learned most of his hacking tricks from his freshman roommate at Stanford, a computer science major who's now the CEO of a multimillion-dollar video game company. Blood and guts make him queasy. Show him a porno of hot chicks going down on each other and he'll come in his pants faster than you can say "girl-on-girl action." He's a faster runner now than he ever was in high school, and his aim with every kind of weapon has gotten better too.

He still thinks that any plan involving superglue is the most hilarious prank in the universe. It's rarer now, more of a challenge, but it is still possible to make him laugh so hard he falls over and gasps for breath.

He misses Mom and he always remembers Mother's Day, even though he doesn't remember anything about her. He never has learned how to tie his shoes properly. He reads the sports page not because he cares about the teams but because he wants to have something normal to talk about.

He still thinks he's responsible for the things his body did when he wasn't in control.

He really, really loves to be fucked in the ass: on his back with his legs hitched high and Dean's tongue working him open, bent over the Impala under the hot sun with his jeans and boxers around his ankles, or on his side on a creaking motel bed, twisting to capture Dean's mouth in a wet, moaning kiss while Dean thrusts into him, it doesn't matter where or how or why, Sam loves it.

He always blushes and drops his head when pretty women thank him for saving their lives, but he always gives them a hug and a promise to return if they ever need help again.

He still stares longingly at ordinary suburban neighborhoods and ordinary tract houses, still gets that wistful look in his eye when he sees a family sitting down to dinner around a home-cooked meal, still smiles like a dope when they bring a kid home to his parents or a man home to his wife, deposited into loving arms safe and sound and relatively unharmed.

And he still thinks Dean doesn't notice.

~

His throat hurts from shouting, his fingers hurt from punching the wall, and his hands are shaking so badly he drops his wallet twice before he can shove it into his pocket. He zips up the duffel bag quickly, doesn't let himself look around the room or think about what he might be forgetting.

Dean's bed is empty. He didn't even come back last night from wherever he stormed off to while Dad and Sam were fighting, didn't even think it was important enough to say goodbye.

Dad's door is closed. Sam hurries past, doesn't even pause. There's nothing left to say, nothing else he's going to hear. He goes downstairs and slips out the front door before he can change his mind.

Dean is sitting on the front steps. Sam walks right into him, kicks his butt without meaning to, and jumps back with a startled curse. "Dean! What are you--" Then his brain catches up to the rest of him, and Sam narrows his eyes. "You're not going to stop me. I've made up my mind and this is what I--"

"I'll drive you to the bus station." Dean stands up slowly, but he doesn't turn around. He looks stiff, tired, and Sam wonders how long he's been sitting out here.

"You -- what?"

"Get in the car, unless you'd rather walk."

Sam doesn't ask if Dean is going to try to stop him or what Dean is thinking, whether Dean has ever thought of taking off on his own. He doesn't want to know if Dean is too mad to ever forgive him, if he'll return Sam's calls or email sometimes. He just gets in the car.

~

"I don't get it. You saw some vision-mojo thing..."

"I saw Max shoot you." Sam winces and closes his eyes; the headaches haven't faded. "In the head."

"In the head." They're speeding away from Saginaw as fast as the wheels will carry them, and Dean's questions grow more skeptical with every mile. "You saw him shoot me in the head, and you--"

"I just... I don't know, Dean. I freaked out, started panicking--" The feeling rises up in his again, the cold, sick fear and desperation -- _no, god, no, not Dean, not Dean, please don't_ \-- and Sam inhales slowly. "And next thing I knew that thing was gone and I could open the door."

"And nothing like this has ever happened before?"

"No!" Sam snaps. "I would have--" He feels Dean's sidelong glance more than sees it, and he breaks off abruptly. Dean's right to be suspicious. After all, Sam didn't tell him about the dreams until he had no choice. "No," he repeats, more calmly. "Nothing, I swear."

"Huh."

"Huh? That's all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say, Sam?"

"Dean, I moved a piece of furniture with my brain."

"I get that, man. Trust me, I get it. I just don't know what to tell you." Dean pauses, tapping the steering wheel thoughtfully. "Maybe -- I dunno, do you think you could do it because Max could do it? Some sort of shared mutant thing?" He doesn't mention the fire that killed Max's mother.

Sam leans his forehead against the cool window and thinks, _No, you idiot. I could do it because in my entire life I have never felt so scared and helpless and terrified as I did stuck in that closet, watching you die._

But what he says is, "I don't know. Maybe."

~

Weeks turn into months, months into years, and before long he stops counting the miles, but Sam never stops counting the things he learns about Dean.

Dean cleans his weapons like a ritual, something he can do with his eyes closed and without even thinking, but each motion is practiced and every one has a purpose. He always knows where everything is in the Impala's trunk, even when it looks like a miniature tornado has blown through during the night. He has more than one exorcism ritual memorized, but he doesn't trust himself to get them right so he makes Sam do the reading whenever he can.

He pees in the shower and wipes his nose on his sleeve. He'll drink beer before ten a.m. and eat leftover pizza that's been sitting in a box on the motel room floor for two days. He leaves puddles of water on the bathroom floor and piles of toenail clippings on the carpet. He insists on folding his clean socks and yells at Sam when he doesn't get it right.

He's still a better shot than Sam, and Sam knows he always will be.

He misses Dad so much there are days it eats away at him like a cancer, gnawing and growing until he folds into a shell of silence and anger that nothing will draw him out of.

He roots for the Red Sox and he's not afraid to say it out loud, no matter where they are in the country.

He tips the old, tired waitresses as much as he tips the young, smiling ones. He gets a stupid smile on his face when he watches kids playing carefree and happily on a playground. The smell of burning bodies makes him gag, but he never flinches from a salt-and-burn.

Even though he pretends otherwise, he always knows the names of the girls he fucks.

He never really believes that anybody is going to fall for his aliases or lies. He knows every word to every song Stevie Nicks ever sang. He's scared of prison, scared of boxes and bars and cages and being told what to do and when to do it.

He has faint, tiny freckles on his neck and shoulders, in the shell of his ear and down the curve of his back, along the top of his ass and on the back of his knees. He's ticklish below his ribs and turns into a pathetic, boneless lump at the mere thought of a backrub.

He believes that he should be dead and Dad should be alive.

He honestly doesn't get it when he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Sam watching him sleep.

He doesn't understand that Ellen and Bobby and Joshua and Jefferson and everybody else they know gives him a hand when he asks because they want to help him, not because he's John Winchester's son. He doesn't understand that he has his own reputation, that folks at the roadhouse know who he is because he's a damn fine hunter on his own.

Though he'd never admit it in a million years, Dean is a total romantic at heart. He loves long, lazy afternoons with nothing to do and nowhere to go, covering Sam's entire body with slow, easy kisses, smiling and laughing quietly and whispering stupid things he would surely kill Sam for ever repeating in public. He loves making out in the shower until the water runs cold and curling close to Sam on winter nights and burying his nose in the curve of Sam's neck.

He still worries that he's going to wake up one morning and Sam will be gone, this time for good.

And he still thinks Sam doesn't know how much it scares him.

~

He wakes up slowly, his mind sluggish and his body protesting, too warm and comfortable to really give it much effort.

"Hey."

Dean blinks his eyes open. Sam is stretched out beside him, one hand tracing small, lazy circles on Dean's belly.

"I'm not waking up," Dean murmurs. "Can't make me."

"Okay," Sam replies, smiling sleepily. "Won't make you."

"Good." Dean closes his eyes again. "Too early to be alive."

Dean feels the brush of Sam's lips on his temple, and he hears a soft whisper, just a huff of breath against his ear, "Love you, Dean."

"Yeah." He smiles, enjoying the touch of Sam's fingers on his skin, the relaxed exhaustion of his body and the sensation of slipping back into sleep, the feeling that there is nobody and nothing else in the world outside the warm cocoon of their bed. "I know."


End file.
